


A Good Thanksgiving

by avxry



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Cute, Fluff, Food, M/M, Modern AU, Thanksgiving, alex is actually nice like what, not alex, sadness ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 20:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8682211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avxry/pseuds/avxry
Summary: There's no such thing as a good Thanksgiving. Thomas knows this.





	

There is no such thing as a good Thanksgiving. Thomas knows this. He's never had a truly good Thanksgiving, like the ones in the movies, where the family gets together over a delicious meal and talks and laughs about happy things.

As a child, Thanksgiving wasn't bad. He never noticed the arguing, really. He never caught the passive-aggressive jabs from his father, never understood why his mother was so quiet. His grandparents didn't get along, but that wasn't a big deal. They would smile at him anyway.

As he got older, he noticed it more and more. Once, when he was seventeen, his father got angry. And loud. He got so loud, and Thomas felt himself start to cry, he locked himself in the bathroom as his parents fought and his grandparents fought even harder. He didn't come out until everyone went their separate ways, and that's when he decided that good Thanksgivings were a myth.

He couldn't control his parents' Thanksgivings, so they still happened, exactly like that, until he left and went to college. He didn't celebrate Thanksgiving at all anymore. The day would pass, and he would just be grateful for the break.

Thanksgiving was just another Thursday.

He met Martha, the love of his life, and he was so happy, and he decided that he would go to her family's Thanksgiving, but just a week before the date, Martha was killed in a bus crash, and he knew that he was still right.

He grieved for months and months. He would never truly get over Martha. But he moved on, day by day. Depression lingered, especially around Thanksgiving; still he made it through.

Years passed, and he got into politics. It was distracting, and he was good at it, so he made it his career. He meandered his way to the top, becoming Secretary of State under President Washington. He had found his purpose.

Except for Hamilton. Fucking Hamilton, always making his life miserable. That was the only downside to his life in government, especially since he was so damn attractive. Thomas felt guilty for a long while; Martha was the love of his life.

But Hamilton was something different. He would never be Martha (and it looked as if he would never be anything, except maybe an enemy), but he filled some other absence, one Thomas hadn't known was there.

So Thomas fought with him day and night, getting as much attention from him as he could. He coped with the unrequited love by pretending it didn't exist until he was alone in his apartment.

The day before Thanksgiving, Thomas fights with him more. They argue about something inconsequential, something totally irrelevant to whatever they're supposed to be sorting through.

Hamilton finally leaves Thomas's office, spitting an insult for good measure. When he's gone, Thomas sighs, dropping into his chair. It's bad enough that it's Thanksgiving; why does Hamilton have to put him through this?

He covers his face with his hands and tries to keep himself from losing it. He doesn't know how long he sits there; he just knows that it must have been a while, because Hamilton is standing in his office, not angry from before.

"Jefferson?" he asks with a raised eyebrow. "You okay?"

There's too much concern in his voice. Thomas wants to scream. "I'm fine."

He pulls his hands from his face to look at Hamilton, trying to tell him to leave with his eyes. Hamilton, daft as ever, doesn't get the message.

"What are your plans for Thanksgiving?"

"Why?"

Hamilton shrugs, hands in his pockets as he walks into Jefferson's office. "Just curious. I know you don't really have any close family, so."

"So you wanted to be nosy?" Thomas sneers, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers together, pretending that he doesn't want to die.

"Yeah, basically," Hamilton says with pursed lips and a nod.

Thomas rolls his eyes. "I don't celebrate."

"Why not?"

"You said it yourself," Thomas shrugs, "I don't have any close family."

Hamilton raises an eyebrow and takes a seat in the chair across from Thomas's desk. "But still, you must do something."

"No, Hamilton," Thomas shakes his head, "I don't. Are we done here?"

"Why don't you?" Hamilton pries on, oblivious to Thomas's discomfort and annoyance. "I mean, even if you don't get together with anyone, surely you have some tradition or something." Hamilton gives him a cheeky grin, shrugging. "Eating a whole tub of ice cream and watching some cheesy Thanksgiving movie, maybe going out and getting hammered. How do you have a good Thanksgiving without some kind of stupid tradition?"

"There's no such thing as a good Thanksgiving," Thomas replies pointedly, frustration bleeding through his tone. He sits up in his chair. "I don't do anything," he continues. "Now, you've gotten your answer; get out of my office."

Hamilton gives him a withering look but obliges. As he's leaving, he calls back, "There is a such thing as a good Thanksgiving, Jefferson. Just you wait."

Thomas is worried about the implication of his statement, but he ignores it in favor of packing his briefcase with some paperwork and heading home, trying to forget how nice it was that Hamilton was concerned about him. Fucking feelings.

He goes home, cooks up some Mac & Cheese, and goes straight to bed. The earlier he goes to sleep, the quicker Thanksgiving will come, and the quicker Thanksgiving comes, the quicker it's gone.

He wakes up nearing noon the next day, appreciating the extra sleep. He doesn't like Thanksgiving, but he definitely likes having the day off.

He fixes some breakfast and settles onto his couch with some paperwork. He works his way through the pile, growing weary of reading, and is about halfway through it when there's a knock at his door.

He groans to himself and sets the papers aside, trying to ignore the fact that he's still in his pajamas.

When he opens the door, he is entirely shocked to see Hamilton standing there, two grocery bags in each hand, a dopey smile on his face.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" he cheers happily, and pushes past a dumbfounded Thomas, who isn't entirely sure that this is real.

Hamilton chatters on, "I don't really know what you like, so I got a little bit of everything. I got cranberry sauce, and this cute little turkey, plus some green beans and mashed potatos - why are you still standing there?"

Thomas really is still standing there, door wide open, staring at Hamilton, who has discared the grocery bags on Thomas's counter, in disbelief. The only thing he can think to say is, "How do you know where I live?"

Hamilton flicks his hand about, ruffling through the bags and pulling out ingredients. "I know where most of my coworkers live."

Thomas slowly shuts the door and walks toward the kitchen, still eyeing Hamilton dubiously. "That's . . . worrisome."

"It's useful," Hamilton shrugs, taking out jars and boxes of things, gathering all but one of the grocery bags and stuffing them into the remaining one.

Thomas is seriously considering kicking Hamilton out, but the feelings part of him finds this all achingly domestic and adorable. He leans his hip on the counter, still giving Hamilton a look. "Don't you have your own Thanksgiving to attend to?"

Hamilton slows minutely, sobering. He swallows thickly. "No."

"Why not?"

Hamilton tries to shrug nonchalantly, but Thomas sees right through it. "Well," he says, "Lafayette is in France, John and Hercules visit with their families. I used to go to the Schuylers, but after Eliza and I broke up, that wasn't really an option."

Thomas looks at Hamilton sympathetically. He feels the urge to say sorry or something, express his condolences, but honestly, Hamilton ruined his own relationship, and that was a long time ago anyway. He couldn't say anything if he wanted to, though, because Hamilton, as usual, keeps talking.

"So I started doing my own thing," he continues, still arranging food items, not looking at Thomas. "I usually take a break from writing - surprise - and watch a horrible Christmas movie while eating Chinese takeout." He grins, finally turning to face Thomas. "Best Thanksgiving tradition ever."

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you from the Caribbean or something? Why do you even celebrate Thanksgiving?"

"I love America," Hamilton responds, as if that totally answers the question. He doesn't elaborate. Thomas just watches him set up the food, placing the baby turkey in the sink and running a little water over it to let it thaw.

After a minute, Hamilton rubs his hands together and sighs, turning back to Thomas with a smile. "Yesterday you said there's no such thing as a good Thanksgiving," he says. He opens his arms in demonstration. "I'm here to prove to you that you're wrong." He shrugs. "So nothing new."

"Watch it, Hamilton," Thomas warns, walked further toward him to examine the ingredients. "You're in my house, and I can kick you out and keep this food if I wanted to."

"But you won't," Hamilton says, and he's totally sure of this. He's right, Thomas guesses. He's annoying, but he's right. Thomas won't kick him out. He doesn't reply.

Hamilton immediately begins cooking. Thomas has never been adept at cooking and hardly knows what's going on half the time, but Hamilton includes him, showing him certain recipes, little tricks to making a green-bean casserole and deviled eggs. They stick the turkey in the oven just a little later, Hamilton putting some kind of seasoning on it (Thomas has no idea what it is, but it smells delicious).

Thomas doesn't talk too much, just watches, but Hamilton talks enough for the both of them. He talks about work a lot, about his friends some, about random things a little. Finally, after a little over an hour of working in the kitchen, Thomas relaxes and falls into a real conversation.

They, of course, end up debating over Hamilton's financial plan, but it's all in good fun. They aren't serious, and the conversation is light-hearted, little smiles and a few jokes.

When all the food is finally ready, it's nearly evening, and Thomas is starving. Hamilton cuts the turkey first in demonstration, then gives the knife to Thomas, who is a little clumsy but catches on quickly.

They fill their plates with food and sit down on Thomas's couch. They don't talk for the first two minutes, devouring their meal instead.

Finally, Thomas says quietly, "Thank you."

Hamilton slowly brings his fork to his plate, a smile forming on his lips. "No problem," he says sincerely. "Told you there's a such thing as a good Thanksgiving."

Thomas chuckles. "For the first time in your life, I think you're right, Hamilton."

"Oh, I'm right a lot more than that," Hamilton argues, and so their conversation continues, trailing off into college stories and family tales, personal intrigues and funny obsessions. They talk until their plates rest on the coffee table, forgotten.

Thomas suggests wine, and Hamilton heartily agrees, taking a glass from Thomas as it's offered. By the time their glasses are empty, they're warm and fuzzy on the inside, just tipsy enough to move closer on the couch and feel each other's warmth as their conversation continues.

They each pour another glass, and the night is sparkling all around them. Hamilton's voice, usually grating and annoying, is melodic and enchanting, and Thomas knows he's done for. If he wasn't in love with Hamilton before, he certainly is now.

So when Hamilton smiles up at him lazily and cutely, he can't help himself. He places a quick kiss on his lips, as if it's normal, because it feels that way. The situation feels so pleasant, and Hamilton barely even reacts, just accepts it and shuffles closer to him, leaning his head on his shoulder, a smile on his face.

They fall asleep soon after, on the uncomfortable couch while the city around them lives on. Thomas is smiling as he dozes off.

The last thing that crosses his mind is that maybe there really is a such thing as a good Thanksgiving.

**Author's Note:**

> this is how i cope with having a kinda shitty thanksgiving
> 
> i hope you enjoyed it, i know it's incredibly ooc but i needed it 
> 
> thank you for reading, and i still take prompts!!
> 
> (also!!! i'm working on a jamilton project that i will hopefully get to share with you all soon ish!!!)


End file.
